


Period sex and other natural disasters.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Hiddlestoner, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Cramps, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Menstruation, period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC is in pain, Tom tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Period sex and other natural disasters.

I shan’t accept any explanation for the phenomenon at the moment unfolding in my core besides my being, and understandably so, unforgivably, brutally disciplined by none other than Mother Nature herself in all her sadistic glory, for not yet carrying the offspring of the man I am, as of a sunny day in the beginning of the previous year’s spring, dating, and perpetuating his multidimensionally gifted DNA. 

And while, at this point in my adult life, I can ascertain the legitimacy of this excruciating happening, as blood seeps at an alarming rate from one of my most prised orifices and I am confined to my bed for lack of strength to endure the pains inflicted by my overly-eager-to-reproduce lady bits, I am absolute in my judgement that my rationalising of all things has gone completely off the rails and there’s nothing to be done in order to restore it other than attempting to preserve as many brain cells as possible and wasting equally as much energy so that, perhaps, I could nap through the self-destructive routine my uterus seems to be in the works of, which would total to at least three to five days, depending on whatever morbid joke Providence may be planning on throwing at me this month. Thus, in perfect accordance with the aforementioned last inkling of constructive inferences, I can be found in my bedroom ( _our_  bedroom, actually, but I keep getting this feeling in my gut, which is peculiar in itself, really, as I have self-administered a quantity of medication large enough to put a horse out of its misery, that my beloved boyfriend will take the guestroom until further notice, without any sort of _insistent suggestion_  on my part), probably starved to death, yet unable to ingest anything other than water and other mildly flavoured beverages, watching either Henry V or Coriolanus, sweating under the thin blanket that covers my scarcely clad body, the temperature, although fluctuating, remaining below zero at all times, and the ever thickening layer of snow dumped all over London, getting scarier by the day.

I’m pretty sure this time around I will once and for all be put to eternal rest, to never experience such torturous discomfort through which I would normally be required to perform as an ever-the-amiable member of a social community, exchanging pleasantries with my colleagues and performing my assigned tasks without hitch.  _No longer_ , I exhale embracing the radiating heat of my spasmodic womb, entire body giving into the unbearable tumult with dramatic finality, no longer tightly resistant, but accepting the pain as part of my indivisible being.  _This time I die_.

Too bad my boyfriend didn’t get the note.

Never in my life has the sound of approaching footsteps caused me this imperative of an urge to vomit, and, considering my all around aversion to all but a handful of individuals with approximately fully functional respiratory systems (most of my friends being resolute smokers), I’m not yet sure if my now actual retching at the prospect of my lover returning home, is a reflection of my pain or my relationship and, although it seems to me like we are decently content with each other’s presence, I am certain many psychologists would argue against my self-proclaimed extra conjugal serenity, invoking some tertiary substrate of my psyche irrecoverably affected because of one minor event or another of my childhood that I can’t for the life of me remember, but my subconscious is completely distressed by, thus the reason why I  bolted out of the bed and into the en-suite bathroom as he greeted me upon entrance in the room I was almost finding my blissful end.

I fact, the answer is a much simpler one, and it doesn’t involve any minute psychoanalysis of my person: the man talks an awful lot and, right now, my body will have none of that – “ _Oh, you’re quite warm…_ ” – and would rather come down with a fever than have to put up with Tom Hiddleston’s extensive informational potpourri and his notorious love of expressing the vastness of his intelligence with everybody interpretably willing to listen.

I rest my face on my hands, still leaning against the toilet bowl, and, as he flushes and I relish in the cool air it exudes, I know there’s no way I can further descend into disgrace.

“Go away.”

He continues presumably – my eyes are still covered – staring at me, and neither replies, nor makes any type of movement that I can sense (although, from what I gathered in our time together, I’m positively sure his eyebrow is inquisitively arched).

“Seriously, Tom, just fucking go. I’m feeling shit enough as it is, I don’t need you looming over me as well.”

“But I want to help,” his tone is of genuine concern, and, as much as I’d like to literally kick him out of my sight, I can’t help but, amidst the light-headedness and nausea I’m experiencing, try my hand at being slightly more compassionate. Pulling myself off the floor, then thoroughly rinsing my mouth, I take the time to calm myself before I inch over to him and cup his cheek. He reflexively leans in, a look of absolute despondence on his face.  _He’s a guy, he doesn’t know_.

“I know you do, but you can’t. I’m hurting like a bitch and being with people tires me out to the point where I want to cry for the rest of my life. I need to be alone now.”

He nods his reluctant concession and, placing a light kiss on my temple, takes his immediate leave, “If you need something yell.”

At last alone again, and returning to bed, I find that our brief but eventful interaction has worn me out enough to allow a restful slumber to shortly commence.

***

It’s somewhere around four in the morning when I wake up with an inexplicable hangover and craving pancakes.

Also, in a pool of my own blood.

Groaning at the repeated misfortunes my gender has to undergo for the sake of perpetuating the species to a god I’m not sure I have ever believed in, I peel my damp self off from the moist sheets, and then the moist sheets off the damp mattress and shove them in the hamper along with my unsalvageably red underwear muttering like an aggravated pensioner doing grocery, except that I’m in my early thirties and pulling out blood soaked cotton out of my vagina. A shower and the realisation that a, my cramps have considerably subsided while I was asleep and b, there are chocolate chip waffles (which are a more than acceptable substituent for pancakes) in the freezer later my womanly problems seem to not be all that troublesome anymore –  _I think I can actually deal with this_  – which is why, when, finally awaken from his own repose at his habitual five o’clock, Tom walks in on my cheerful singing along to whatever Beatles song that’s softly playing in the background he kept pestering me about for such a long time that I remembered most of the lyrics to, and, unlike the previous day, swaddled in a pair of snuggly and season appropriate pyjamas, putting together a nice breakfast for both of us to help ourselves to and then start the day.

“Can it be that you’re feeling better?”

“God, yes.”

“Good,” he circles his arms around my midriff and pulls me closer to him, swaying to the music and humming into the back of my neck. “I love you.”

I awkwardly, stretch my neck to kiss the sharp line of his jaw.

“I love you, too.”

When, soon enough, I turn off the stove as we’re flat out dry humping against the kitchen counter, he pulls away, and, against my protests, seats me at the table, swiftly sets a plate and a mug in front of me, taking his own servings and sitting himself in the chair across mine. I stare at him confused, expecting an answer.

“You said no period sex.”

An even more confusing pause during which I’m trying to recollect ever pronouncing such abomination transpires. My quest remains unsuccessful and, seeing this, ever the perfect gentleman, he clarifies.

“It ruins the mattresses and you’re too tired to do it otherwise than on your back when you’re on your period.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh, Tom,” I grin, sitting. “Oh, my darling,  _darling_  Tom, aren’t you the most gallant, most considerate man in the world.”

Thinking of the already ruined mattress in the bedroom, I straddle him in his seat and resume our snogging.

We’ll just start the day later.

**Author's Note:**

> *gasps* So fast? *gasps again* And edited?! Oh, my god, this girl is on fire! 
> 
> I know the title (and the summary) may be a bit deceiving, but I felt like they just fit, so bear with me.
> 
> I did look over it, but if there are any mistakes you spot, feel free to knock me over the head and call me names *laughs*
> 
> Thanks for the amazing support, you guys, the feedback on the Eulogy is amazing and I’m so thankful and happy for it *bows down*. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, muffins, stay golden *spoon-feeds you chocolate chip mint ice-cream*


End file.
